A Ring to Take His Revenge Page 3

  ‘Given your recent experience with Inga the Swedish—?’

  ‘I know what she was, Ms Guilham,’ Antonio cut in.

  ‘Quite. So you need a beard?’

  Antonio’s hand went to the smooth planes of his chiselled jaw. ‘A beard?’

  ‘Not that kind of beard,’ she said, suppressing the smile that toyed at the edges of her mouth. ‘You need a fake fiancée to mask your previous indiscretions so that Bartlett will find you more palatable and therefore be more likely to welcome your investment.’

  ‘In a nutshell, yes.’

  ‘And am I to presume that all of this—’ she said mirrored his Italian gesture ‘—needs to be kept under wraps? No one is to know about this, as well as the research into Bartlett?’

  He nodded his dark-haired head once. ‘There is another party interested in investing with Bartlett. My interest cannot get out to that person—or any other for that matter.’

  The darkness of the warning in his voice was something that Emma hadn’t yet encountered in her boss. And that in itself was enough to inform her that this wasn’t to be taken lightly.

  Her quick mind filed the top-line notes of his request. ‘Okay. I’m going to need to clear your schedule tomorrow evening.’

  This was why Emma was good, Antonio thought to himself. Apart from the slight slip-up of her earlier sarcasm, which he would happily put down to surprise, when she took on a task she was efficient, direct and held none of the self-doubt he had seen in staff twice her age.

  He knew her announcement of his change of plan for tomorrow would be wholly and one hundred per cent in line with her new-found task. A task that she hadn’t balked at, and had only posed pertinent questions on. Mostly.

  ‘Done.’

  ‘I’ll have your blue tuxedo sent to the dry cleaners and prepared for the gala.’

  ‘What gala?’ Antonio queried.

  ‘The Arcuri Foundation’s yearly charity gala. You are usually in Italy during these two weeks, which is why you are never sent an invitation.’

  ‘We have a charity gala?’

  For the first time in eighteen months Antonio was surprised to see something like anger in Emma Guilham’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, we do.’ She paused, once again masking her obvious feelings on the matter with her legendarily cool gaze. ‘And it will be the perfect place for you to find a fiancée.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  ANTONIO HAD SPENT the last twenty-four hours going over the research files Emma had put together on Bartlett—and the other research she had provided.

  If he found anything distasteful about looking at the pictures and brief biographies Emma had collated of several of the single female attendees of that evening’s event, he ruthlessly forced it aside. He had but one goal. And tonight would be the first step in achieving it.

  Emma buzzed on the intercom, interrupting his thoughts to announce that the car was there to take them to The Langsford Hotel. Although it was only a fifteen-minute walk from the office, and he’d been inclined to make that walk, Emma had swiftly denounced the idea, saying that it wouldn’t ‘do’ to have the CEO of Arcuri Enterprises walking up to the red carpet in front of the world’s press. After all, she had said, she was apparently now in the business of safeguarding his reputation.

  He’d repressed a smile. He was beginning to enjoy these brief glimpses of a dry English humour that she had hidden from him until now. Pulling at the sleeves of the tuxedo’s jacket to fit them to the lines of his arms and torso, he opened the door to his office—and stopped.

  Emma was perched on the end of her desk, leaning over towards the phone and looking quite unlike any way he’d seen look before.

  She was still adorned in her usual monotone colours of black and white, and the wide panels of her loose dress covered all but the faintest glimpses of her figure. But her dark hair was piled up on her head in thick twirls, revealing strands of gold and deep reds that he had not seen before. It framed her heart-shaped face perfectly, and a light dusting of make-up served to accentuate the hazel and green of her eyes. A nude gloss lent a sheen to her lips that sent a punch to his gut more powerful than any brighter, richer colour could have achieved.

  She looked natural and fresh—and so very different from the women he usually spent his time with.

  ‘Yes, don’t worry. The waiters know what to do. But because Ms Cherie was a last-minute addition to the invitation list we couldn’t have known her dietary requirements before. The kitchen staff always make three extra portions of each main, so just reassure her that a vegan option will be made available to her.’

  Antonio watched as Emma hung up the phone, catching the unusual sight of a long, shapely, creamy calf.

  ‘Vegan?’

  Emma turned, clearly surprised to find him standing there.

  ‘Enough of a crime to scratch her off the fiancée list?’ she asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Antonio said, forcing his libido under control.

  During the day—in her usual office attire—she wasn’t so much of a problem. But even though Emma was covered from head to toe, that glimpse of smooth marble-like skin was enough to snare his attention. And he suddenly understood why Victorian England had deemed ankles the most threatening thing to society since smallpox.

  Shaking his head to rid his mind of inappropriate thoughts about his PA, he led the way to the elevator that would take them down to the limousine waiting for them in the underground car park.

  In the confines of the metal box, with Emma beside him, Antonio realised that it was going to be a long night.

  * * *

  Emma couldn’t wait for this night to be over. They hadn’t even arrived at the gala and she was already exhausted. It had taken every waking minute she’d had, not only to put together her research on Bartlett and compile the dossiers on Antonio’s prospective fiancées—not that most of them knew they were prospective fiancées—but also to ensure that the foundation’s gala wasn’t single-handedly ruined by the very man in charge of organising it in the first place.

  Marcus Greenfeld was a fusty old man, with fusty old ideas about how to run a charity. And it made her mad. She’d caught sight of his opening speech on the photocopier on the twenty-third floor and realised that something had to be done.

  She’d hastily rewritten the thing, told a bold-faced lie to Greenfeld’s assistant that Antonio had wanted to take a look at it, and sent it off to the teleprompter before Greenfeld had even been able to think of questioning it. Or question the three extra invitations she’d had issued to fiancée options four, five and six.

  Antonio might have told her what he needed in a fiancée but, honestly, the man’s taste in women was so varied she couldn’t tell which way he would go. Though option two—the vegan Ella Cherie—was looking increasingly less likely.

  As the limo pulled up to The Langsford she remembered she had yet to tell Antonio about the other last-minute invitation.

  ‘Dimitri will be here tonight,’ she said as they slowed to a stop. ‘Danyl was...unable to attend.’

  ‘Well, he is running a country.’

  Emma wasn’t so sure. She’d heard angry words in the background when she was on the phone to his assistant. There had been something behind the bitterly shouted phrase, ‘I wouldn’t go back to that hotel if you paid me!’ that had made Emma concerned that her suggested location for the gala might be a mistake.

  But there was nothing online other than praise for this exquisite, world-renowned hotel. A hotel she’d heard of even back in London, when she’d scoured the press reports of its grand opening. She might never be able to afford to stay in the amazing hotel herself, but that didn’t mean that she couldn’t experience it vicariously through work.

  ‘Why?’ Antonio asked, and Emma wondered briefly if she’d missed something.

  ‘Why, what?’

 
‘Why did you invite them?’

  ‘I thought that you might need some independent advice on your choice.’

  Antonio looked at her, but she was unable to divine his thoughts.

  ‘Wingmen—I thought you might need wingmen,’ she clarified.

  ‘Emma,’ he said, with censure heavy on his tongue. ‘I have never needed a wingman.’

  And the answering shivers that rippled through her body told her just how right he was.

  * * *

  As she did at most events Antonio attended for work, Emma stayed discreetly behind him during the initial introductions, her quietly whispered words prompting him with the names of the gala’s guests and their partners. There had been times in the past when the additional information she provided had saved him from embarrassment—especially once when Antonio had nearly mistaken a man’s mistress for his wife.

  He was surprised to see so many recognisable faces. He could honestly say that he had never given this gala a first thought, let alone a second. If it didn’t contribute to bringing Michael Steele down, it didn’t matter to him. Marcus Greenfeld—the man Antonio had inherited along with the foundation he had secured for Arcuri Enterprises all those years ago—had never demanded anything of him and he liked it that way. Antonio had never taken to the man.

  ‘Natasha.’

  Emma’s voice cut through his thoughts. He turned to find her welcoming the statuesque and considerably beautiful black woman making her way towards him.

  ‘How lovely to see you again,’ Emma said, kissing the woman on both cheeks.

  The answering smile spoke of a friendship between the two and he instantly recognised the woman as fiancée option number one.

  ‘Natasha—allow me to introduce you to Antonio Arcuri. Antonio—Natasha Eddings,’ she said, gently proffering the woman to him like a gift, before swiftly disappearing to leave him alone with her.

  Within minutes Antonio didn’t have to bring to mind Emma’s handwritten scrawl on her brief bio—This is my favourite—to see why Natasha was Emma’s choice. Natasha was articulate and intelligent, beautiful and, in short, practically perfect. But while she might meet his requirements, he had the odd impression that he did not meet hers.

  ‘It would seem that my usual and widely reported charm might be falling a little flat this evening,’ he remarked, testing his theory.

  Natasha smiled apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Arcuri. Emma did explain to me the delicate nature of your...interest,’ she said, clearly searching for suitable phrasing.

  A shiver of alarm passed through him quickly, but she pressed on.

  ‘I assure you that I don’t know why—only that you are looking for a fiancée—and no one will hear about it from me. I know that Emma has not spoken to anyone else of it. But...’

  ‘You are perhaps involved with someone?’ he offered, giving Natasha a way out.

  ‘I am. Whoever you choose will be a lucky woman. I am sure of it. But I’m afraid I am not she.’ Natasha smiled gently, smoothing any potentially ruffled feathers.

  ‘Rest assured, Natasha, whoever he is,’ he said, referring to her involvement, ‘he is the lucky one.’

  The smile that lit her features was bright and spectacular.

  ‘Thank you. May I offer a suggestion, Mr Arcuri?’

  When he nodded his assent, she continued.

  ‘Perhaps you don’t have to be looking so far afield.’

  With that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Antonio with a thought that was matched only by a growing suspicion on his part. But the clinking of glass interrupted his partially formed idea, sounding out the fact that the opening speech from Marcus Greenfeld was about to begin.

  Having prepared himself for the most boring fifteen minutes of his life, Antonio was faintly surprised at the warm, heartfelt introduction given by the man as he clearly outlined the charity’s main functions. Though his voice was slightly stilted, the words were full of compassion and drive—and were, in a sense, a call to arms.

  Looking across the audience, he saw them resonate, and a ripple of emotion shuddered through each of the attendees that he, himself, was not immune to. The only thing preventing the speech from being truly inspirational was the man delivering it.

  From the corner of his eye Antonio saw his CFO, David Grant, approach quietly, and they greeted each other with a fond nod of welcome.

  ‘I have to say,’ Antonio said in hushed tones, ‘Greenfeld’s doing much better than I remember.’

  His CFO frowned, then smiled. ‘Ah... I heard that it was down to you, but now I’m beginning to think that your PA has been sprinkling her magic fairy dust over his speech—as well as over this gala.’

  Antonio was confused. What had Emma to do with all this?

  David let out a gruff laugh. ‘For the last two months Emma has been running interference with Greenfeld and doing everything possible to ensure this night is an unusual success. You’re always out of the country for this event, but it’s been growing steadily more boring and more dull each year. It was Emma’s decision to move the gala to The Langsford and provide gift packages for the guests. Not to mention rewriting the speech. She’s done wonders.’

  Wonders, indeed. Antonio was about to voice his frustration at the fact that his perfect PA had effectively been moonlighting, but David’s next words stopped him short.

  ‘I suppose it’s only natural, given her personal experience. Cancer research is one of the main focuses of the Arcuri Foundation, and that clearly makes her the perfect support for the event.’

  Antonio stared at his CFO. Cancer? Emma had experienced cancer?

  A roar sounded in his ears and it took him a moment to realise that it was the sound of the guests applauding.

  * * *

  Emma had watched Greenfeld’s speech from the sidelines of the large entertainment suite at the top of The Langsford. She had pretended to be checking the gala’s gift bags, ensuring that the male and female packages were all present and contained the small bottles of champagne a local winery had been happy to supply. Other companies had also lent their support, through handmade bracelets and perfume for the women, aftershave and cufflinks for the men.

  She knew she’d thrown Antonio’s name around as if it was currency, but it had been worth it. And if her boss took issue with it, then she would set him straight. Tonight the gala was predicted to raise more money in donations than the last two events put together.

  Once again she was pushing something bigger than herself out into the world, and this time she could do some actual good. Funding would reach beyond the not so small world of Arcuri Enterprises and help people—really help people who desperately needed it. And for that...? Yes, for that she would go into battle with her boss if needed.

  But as her hands had hovered over the blue and pink cloth gift bags Greenfeld’s voice had projected her own words back to her, and she’d cursed the man for not being moved, for the barrier between his words and the emotions she felt in her chest. The man was simply not good enough at his job.

  Still, Emma chided herself, she couldn’t do everything. Tonight she should really be checking on how Antonio was getting on in his search.

  Although she was pleased with the fiancée options she’d miraculously pulled from the gala at the last minute, she had noticed Natasha’s departure from her conversation with Antonio with something horribly like relief. She liked Natasha. The bright, intelligent woman had been at several of the foundation’s functions, but hadn’t been able to help the awful sting of jealousy curling in her chest as she had seen them talk.

  Antonio might be an unconscionable playboy, and she might have had to smooth the emotional waters for his ex-lovers, but she’d never had to see it personally. Through the hackneyed words of the international press that followed him almost constantly, she’d been able to see simply an incredibly attractive m
an who enjoyed beautiful women with good grace and no false promises.

  And if she was foolish to wonder what it would be like to be one of those beautiful women, then that was her own look-out.

  She had long given up on fantasies of being a beautiful blushing woman on the arm of a dashingly handsome man. Her experience with cancer had seen to that. It may have stolen her breasts—which she had been prepared for. But somehow it had been the prospect of nipple reconstruction that had truly defined its effect on her sense of self. Unwilling and emotionally unable to face yet another surgery, Emma had instead opted for medical tattoos. The tattooist had been kind and had worked wonders. The tattoos meant that she didn’t look in the mirror and immediately see something missing. The implants she could handle, and the scars she could deal with, but that last thing had been the hardest.

  And, beyond the fight she’d won against cancer, it wasn’t just flesh and time that it had taken from her. It had stolen her parents’ marriage, and it had stolen her sense of femininity. At seventeen she’d been a child, and now, at twenty-three, she had yet to feel like a woman. She was unable and unwilling to put herself out there and find someone she might trust her delicate sense of self to—trust, should the worst happen, that they’d be there for her on the other side.

  Her eyes were drawn to Antonio’s presence across the room. Standing almost a foot above most of the guests, he was never hard to find. And as she saw him laughing with fiancée option number four—one of the last-minute additions she had added just in case—she gave herself a little mental slap.

  Putting her feelings back into a box, she went to check on the preparations for the gala meal.

  * * *

  Had anything ever been as annoying to him as this woman’s laugh? Ever?

  Antonio couldn’t help but think not, as she pealed out another reel of hysteria at an inane observation that had fallen flat on his own ears.

  He couldn’t hold it against Emma. Amber—he couldn’t keep thinking of her as option four—was fine. On paper. Two degrees...a board member at her mother’s make-up company...daughter of an international diplomat. Tick, tick, tick. But in person...? She was a car crash. She was loud, there was that awful laugh, and then there was her appearance. Clearly she was a stunning woman, but as she nearly fell out of her tightly constricting dress he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than distaste.